


Maybe mice just shouldn't make plans

by atheartagentleman



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Fluff, Idiots in Love, M/M, brief mention of eye surgery, fluffiest fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-13 05:28:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1214422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atheartagentleman/pseuds/atheartagentleman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘I said Ferre got contacts! You know, little glass disk-thingies that you put in your eyes to make--’</p><p>‘Yes, yes,’ Enjolras interrupts. ‘Also they’re not disks. But why is this a bad thing? Shouldn’t you be hopping about in triumph right now? I’m fairly sure I have a celebratory bottle of sparkling cider stowed away for this exact occasion -- your idea, I should point out.’</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe mice just shouldn't make plans

**Author's Note:**

> Written based off headcanoning with the wonderful [Marie](http://lesroisdumonde.tumblr.com) and [Chain](http://montparnaughty.tumblr.com), because Marie needed fluff and I needed a kick up the butt.
> 
> Credit to [this post](http://at-heart-a-gentleman.tumblr.com/post/77080104810/combefree-combeferre-isnt-wearing-his-glasses#notes) for one event, and to [ygrainette](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ygrainette/pseuds/ygrainette) for her ever-excellent betaing.

Courfeyrac doesn’t tend to do things quietly, so when the door to Enjolras’ room slams open, he hardly glances up from his laptop.

For a few seconds, there is silence, as Enjolras keeps reading and Courfeyrac stands dramatically in the doorway -- Enjolras can see him fidget in his peripheral vision, and it’s the kind of low-level distracting that will have him feeling homicidal in ten minutes. Then Courfeyrac gets impatient and lets out a whine, and Enjolras finally clues in. He looks at his friend properly and notes three things: first, his eyes are very wide and very freaked out; second, his hair looks like he’s been running his hands through it for about half an hour; third, he’s still making high-pitched noises of distress.

Enjolras more or less flings his laptop aside to launch himself at Courfeyrac. He’s not entirely sure what this will achieve, since he hasn’t a clue what’s wrong, but he has the overpowering urge to touch his friend, to make sure he’s still in one piece, that nobody has hurt him, because if they have, Enjolras will rip them limb from limb.

‘What happened?’ he demands, trying to sound firm and reassuring, rather than angry.

‘Combeferre got contacts.’

Enjolras blinks. His hand slips lamely from Courfeyrac’s shoulder. He blinks again.

‘Come again?’

‘I said Ferre got contacts! You know, little glass disk-thingies that you put in your eyes to make--’

‘Yes, yes,’ Enjolras interrupts. ‘Also they’re not disks. But why is this a bad thing? Shouldn’t you be hopping about in triumph right now? I’m fairly sure I have a celebratory bottle of sparkling cider stowed away for this exact occasion -- your idea, I should point out.’

‘I take everything back! It was a terrible idea! Why did I ever let you talk me into talking Combeferre into anything?’

Enjolras allows a few beats of silence as his eyebrow slowly creeps up his forehead. ‘I didn’t. It was entirely your idea. Every part of this has been your idea.’

The thanks he gets for this is a glare of absolute betrayal before Courfeyrac steps around him to flop face-first onto Enjolras’ bed. He only narrowly misses the laptop. Enjolras sighs deeply and sits next to Courfeyrac’s prone form to run his hand up and down his back.

‘We have made a terrible mistake,’ Courfeyrac intones. Enjolras suspects he’s aiming for sombre, or even ominous, but he’s got a pillow in his face, so mostly it just comes out thick and muffled.

He also still has no idea what’s going on, and goodness only knows how he doesn’t laugh.

Just then, his phone buzzes.

‘Speak of the devil, Combeferre’s on his way here,’ he says, checking it with one hand while the other continues to pet Courfeyrac.

‘What, why?’ Coufeyrac’s head shoots up in alarm. ‘Deflect! Lie! Say the building burned down. Do something, but do not let him come here.’

‘Can’t, I’m afraid. This project is due next week. Are you staying here?’

‘Yes. Just leave me here to die.’ With that, Courfeyrac drops down again.

Enjolras retrieves his laptop and gets back to work, his phone perched on his knee so he won’t miss Combeferre’s call. The buzzer for his and Courfeyrac’s apartment broke two weeks ago, so anyone who needs to get into the building has to use the phones until the landlord gets someone to fix it.

Sure enough, it starts vibrating a few minutes later and Enjolras trots downstairs to let Combeferre in -- it’s pissing with rain, and the less time anyone has to spend in that, the better.

Combeferre’s hair is plastered to his head, water is dripping from his nose and his chin, and he’s sniffling a mite pathetically. And yet… Well, the disappearance of his usual, thick-framed, beat-up glasses has opened up his face and Enjolras is momentarily taken aback by how good he looks. He is having something of a holy-shit-when-did-my-friend-get-this-attractive-kudos-to-you-Combeferre moment on his front doorstep. Huh.

‘Huh.’

‘Huh?’ Combeferre looks perplexed.

‘Nothing. Sorry. Come on in.’

They make their way up to Enjolras’ and Courfeyrac’s apartment in companionable silence, but Enjolras can’t let it go. The words burn on his tongue as he hangs Combeferre’s coat over the radiator. They crowd behind his teeth as he fetches a towel from the bathroom and Combeferre shivers on the doormat. They damn near break through as Combeferre gratefully dries his hair and emerges looking tousled and much happier. He bites down on each half-formed phrase, swallows them with a smile, and doesn’t let on.

Courfeyrac is still on his bed when Enjolras pushes open the door to his room, and Combeferre looks alarmed until he sees that Enjolras is entirely unbothered, which can only mean that Courfeyrac is fine. He perches on Enjolras’ desk chair, while Enjolras sits on the floor and pulls up the various documents they need on his laptop. He’s arranging them into a sensible order to show Combeferre, when the levee finally breaks:

‘You _did_ get contacts.’ He doesn’t mean for it to come out accusatory, but it sort of does anyway. He and Courfeyrac have spent years, _years_ , trying everything from subliminal messaging to glittery intervention banners to slipping leaflets into his textbooks to get Combeferre to trade in his near-broken, impractical glasses. They’re positively dangerous if a protest gets ugly! And Enjolras had thought that it was mostly Courfeyrac’s bizarre enthusiasm that had driven their campaign. Only now, when Combeferre has gone behind their backs to do exactly what they wanted him to do that he realises how emotionally invested he has been in the whole thing. It takes him more than a little by surprise.

‘Laser surgery, actually. Apparently my eyes aren’t suitable for contacts or something.’

Courfeyrac lets out a wordless howl of rage and raises his face from the pillow with an expression of wounded betrayal that eclipses his earlier one entirely.

‘What?’ Combeferre asks defensively.

‘You… You just -- just no. No. I refuse. I absolutely cannot with you,’ Courfeyrac splutters indignantly, before stalking out of the room.

There is a brief silence in which Combeferre moves to push his glasses up his nose, realises they aren’t there anymore, and tries to lower his hand again as inconspicuously as possible. He still looks deeply confused.

‘Do you have any idea how long we’ve been trying to get you to do this?’ Enjolras asks. ‘We had a codenamed operation and everything, and were pretty sure contacts were the best we could hope for. Then off you go and get fucking _laser surgery_ without so much as a heads-up, and you come back looking like you’ve escaped from somebody’s runway, and it’s all a little unfair.’

‘Oh,’ Combeferre says. Then he giggles. The fucker. He sits there, _on Enjol_ _ras’ chair_ , giggling and looking smug. He also keeps casting odd looks at the door, but Enjolras doesn’t have the capacity to deal with that right now on top of everything else.

‘We should get to work,’ he says instead, and Combeferre acquiesces, and things get pretty much back to normal for the next fifteen minutes or so until Enjolras’ phone buzzes again.

It’s a text from Courfeyrac.

‘Did he go out?’ Enjolras mutters. ‘Why the hell is he texting me from the next room?’

_help combeferre looks even hotter than before i am so so fucked. and not even in a fun way_

Ah. That would be why he’s texting. Enjolras can feel a smile pulling at his lips, which in retrospect is a bad move. In his defence, however, nobody who knows Combeferre could have predicted what he does next: he leans down and neatly swipes Enjolras’ phone from his hands. Enjolras is too surprised to put up any kind of fight, and doesn’t fully realise what’s happening until Combeferre has punched in his pin (he’s not even surprised that Combeferre knows it) and is reading the text. Fuck.

Then he very slowly stands up, straightens his damp clothing, and makes for the door.

‘Excuse me. There’s… There’s something I need to attend to.’

Enjolras watches him leave and flops onto the floor with a groan. _Fan_ tastic.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [Tumblr](http://at-heart-a-gentleman.tumblr.com).


End file.
